


Physis Logia

by kingofokay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingofokay/pseuds/kingofokay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The human body is full of many strange quirks. Castiel is loathe to learn them.</p><p>Physiology (pron.: /ˌfɪziˈɒlədʒi/; from Ancient Greek φύσις (physis), meaning "nature, origin", and –λογία (–logia), meaning "study of")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean is in the map room of the Batcave when he first hears the telltale little squeak of sound. He pauses, listening. Sure enough, a moment later, the same sharp and small noise, coming from the vicinity of the kitchen.

Expression somewhere between bemused and amused, he cranes his head around the corner. Standing in the center of the kitchen is one Castiel, arms out slightly from his sides and eyes wide and fixed on the far wall, poised as though waiting for the aftershocks of an earthquake. For a beat, silence reigns over the kitchen, before Castiel flinches severely and Dean locates the source of the squeaking.

Dean should feel bad. Human bodies are very strange indeed, and learning the many, many quirks of them is a long and complicated process. None of this stops Dean from breaking down into the kind of laugh that springs damp tears into the crows-feet wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel wails, looking absolutely and utterly distraught. “Dean, what is hap-” but he’s interrupted by another hiccup, which just sets Dean off again. By the time Dean settles, another hic has wrenched through him, and Castiel looks completely miserable. “I don’t unders-“ _hic_. A glare of intense frustration. “It seems my diaphragm is-“ _hic_. He growls his annoyance.

Dean finally takes pity, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “No, you’re okay,” he says, putting bracing hands on Castiel’s shoulders as he shudders with another squeak. “It’s just hiccups, there’s nothing wrong.” He guides Castiel to a chair, sitting him down, ignoring the surly and disgruntled glowering as he pulls a glass from the cupboard and fills it from the tap. “Take a deep breath and hold it, then drink this, okay?” Dean says, holding out the glass and sliding into the chair opposite.

_Well_ , Dean thinks to himself. _This is better than when he got the flu, at least_.


	2. Chapter 2

They’ve just started exhuming a body, the first time it happens. It’s a late August midwestern evening, sunset casting golden light over the border of ragweed at the edge of the graveyard. They’re about two and a half feet down, and it’s Dean’s turn to dig. It’s quiet, the only sounds being the gradual crescendo of evening crickets waking up, and the occasional grunt from Dean.

That’s probably why it’s so startling when a sudden and very loud sneeze bursts forth from Castiel. Sam’s head thunks back against the gravestone he’s sitting against as he starts, and Castiel looks positively scandalized, eyes wide with shock. Dean straightens with a grunt, waist-deep in grave, but the look on Castiel’s face draws a snorted laugh out from him. “You okay, dude?”

Castiel stands stock still, as if afraid he’s going to be forced to do it again. He loosens after a moment, satisfied his olfactory system is under his own control, and his nose crinkles up as he rubs a khaki sleeve at it. “That was a highly unpleasant experience,” he says stuffily, and Dean huffs another laugh which earns him a squinted shot of blue-eyed glare. Castiel lets his sleeved arm drop, but he’s still frowning as he sniffs.

Dean sets back to work, but he’s interrupted a moment later by another sniff, drawn out and mucousy, and he reemerges from the half-dug grave with a flat statement of, “ _No_. Nuh uh. What are you, five?” He shoots an exasperated look at his brother and ignores the glower Castiel aims at him. “ _Please_ tell me we’ve got napkins in the duffle.” Sam roots through the bag sitting next to him, extracting a disheveled handful of fast food restaurant napkins, offering them up to Cas. He takes them with a mild disgust, and blows his nose with equal parts annoyance and embarrassment. If he hears the low chuckle coming from the in-progress grave, he ignores it.

The second time it happens, they’ve just lit up the bones, flames flickering in a breeze that brushes at their hair and pulls at their coats. Castiel was caught just as unawares as the last time, nearly toppling into the burning casket as the sneeze startles him. Dean catches at him and holds him steady, trying to bite down his amusement and then failing at it when Castiel makes a low, whining noise. Cas sniffles again, loudly.

“Maybe he’s got hayfever,” Sam offers, passing over another rumpled napkin.

Dean catches the wide-eyed, suddenly panicked look crossing Castiel’s face, and cuts it off at the pass. “Not like a _fever_ fever, it means allergies.”

“Oh,” Cas says, nerves folding down into a petulant frown. He sniffs again, loud and wet, and meets Dean’s glare with a pitiably miserable expression of distraught. It must have been successful because Dean folds like a deck of cards, sighing as he reaches to rub small, comforting circles into Castiel’s back.

“Look, it’s not that bad, okay? It’s probably seasonal. We can get you some medicine, or something,” Dean says, and he withholds a drawn out sigh as Castiel makes a sullen little grumbling sound and leans his face against Dean’s shoulder, snuffling. Dean swears to God that if the soft sound he’s hearing is Sam silently laughing, he will push him into that flaming grave.


End file.
